Mother Teresa Charities
During my week visit in Kolkata at the suggestion of a friend I volunteered at the Mother Teresa Charities and Ministries for a few days. The ministry is comprised of several locations, which care for either handicapped or abandoned children, or elderly people on the verge of dying. My friend and I signed up to help at Premdon, a large facility that cares for dying men and women. Our day started by hand-washing clothes in an assembly line with about ten other volunteers from all over the world, where we took turns scrubbing, soaking, rinsing, or hanging the clothes and sheets (It’s an awesome experience in itself to work with people from every part of the globe who have a desire to serve the poor and destitute). Clearly, any sort of washing machine would cut the time of this task by more than half but apparently the Mother Teresa way is to keep things simple and simulate the way the people you are taking care of live their lives. However, her outreach started quite some time ago and if she were here now I’m thinking she would not disapprove of a refrigerator so meat wouldn’t spoil or a few washing technique upgrades. Nonetheless, the experience bonded us with the other volunteers and I feel so blessed to have been even a very small part in the Mother Teresa ministries.
One morning while ringing out clothes a sister called me over to help her change bandages for the patients. I was supposed to lift them on and off the table and keep them in a position suitable for the sister to clean their wounds and bed sores. I tried to keep my face flinches to a minimal as the sister peeled back the white tissue covering ghastly scares so deep you could see their bones, black and rotting from exposure to the open air. One women was so skinny she could have posed as a holocaust survivor, her shoulder blades protruding out and her stomach so sunken in it was difficult to define her actual figure. She had bed wounds so deep it was as if someone has gouged out a one-inch deep chunk of her skin all around the area surrounding her tailbone. Cleaning her wounds was obviously painful as she flinched and audibly moaned while the sisters squeezed out yellow goup revealing her inner flesh (which literally looked like a piece of raw meat) and then squirted several ointments and re-wrapped the wounds. I reached for her hand and stroked her cheek, I thought she was crying but I wasn’t sure if her face was simply stained with tears or if these were fresh tears. Each time she moaned and squeezed my hand tighter I drew my face closer to hers and whispered ‘it’s ok, you’re almost done’ but I think I said this more for me than her. I knew she couldn’t understand me but I had to say something. Our eyes met and I never felt so close to death, I wanted to cry but as I glanced at the sisters working diligently I knew this was no time to break down. I had never held someone so close to the end, we locked eyes again and I could almost feel the pain riveting through her limbs in her lifeless expression and contorted body, I held her hand more tightly and hummed gently still not knowing if this was to sooth her or me. Death is not something for any us to dread or consume our minds with, and if anything I feel more comfortable with death after working with these women, but it also made me want to believe that death is just one more stop along each person’s journey and not the final destination. Perhaps it will be my final destination but for these men and women I hope they have a second chance or opportunity to live a decent life. I guess that is the intent of Mother Teresa’s mission to give the poorest and lowest people in society a little respect and love before they died, which everyone deserves. Of course no one can say what will happens after death, but it can’t hurt to hold someone’s hand as they exit their time on earth.
One morning while ringing out clothes a sister called me over to help her change bandages for the patients. I was supposed to lift them on and off the table and keep them in a position suitable for the sister to clean their wounds and bed sores. I tried to keep my face flinches to a minimal as the sister peeled back the white tissue covering ghastly scares so deep you could see their bones, black and rotting from exposure to the open air. One women was so skinny she could have posed as a holocaust survivor, her shoulder blades protruding out and her stomach so sunken in it was difficult to define her actual figure. She had bed wounds so deep it was as if someone has gouged out a one-inch deep chunk of her skin all around the area surrounding her tailbone. Cleaning her wounds was obviously painful as she flinched and audibly moaned while the sisters squeezed out yellow goup revealing her inner flesh (which literally looked like a piece of raw meat) and then squirted several ointments and re-wrapped the wounds. I reached for her hand and stroked her cheek, I thought she was crying but I wasn’t sure if her face was simply stained with tears or if these were fresh tears. Each time she moaned and squeezed my hand tighter I drew my face closer to hers and whispered ‘it’s ok, you’re almost done’ but I think I said this more for me than her. I knew she couldn’t understand me but I had to say something. Our eyes met and I never felt so close to death, I wanted to cry but as I glanced at the sisters working diligently I knew this was no time to break down. I had never held someone so close to the end, we locked eyes again and I could almost feel the pain riveting through her limbs in her lifeless expression and contorted body, I held her hand more tightly and hummed gently still not knowing if this was to sooth her or me. Death is not something for any us to dread or consume our minds with, and if anything I feel more comfortable with death after working with these women, but it also made me want to believe that death is just one more stop along each person’s journey and not the final destination. Perhaps it will be my final destination but for these men and women I hope they have a second chance or opportunity to live a decent life. I guess that is the intent of Mother Teresa’s mission to give the poorest and lowest people in society a little respect and love before they died, which everyone deserves. Of course no one can say what will happens after death, but it can’t hurt to hold someone’s hand as they exit their time on earth.
Kolkata!
Visiting Kolkata is like taking a time-machine back to the mid 1900s with the countless large yellow 1940’s taxis and soot that covers the city making it appear as if you are stepping into a black and white photograph. The heavy British influence is still visible in the architecture, street layout, taxis, street trolleys, and larger central park, but Kolkata is by no means stagnate, and what makes Kolkata interesting is this mix of British and Indian culture. There are certainly signs of modern western influence, posh hotels, coffee shops, restaurants, and book stores that cater towards the English reader, but in Kolkata a street beggar, cycle-rickshaw, or cheap street food vendor is never far off. The city appears a jumbled mess, there is constant honking and traffic jams, piles of garbage, towering and tangled banyan trees lining the street, crumbled sidewalks, street fires used to serve deliciously cheap Bengali food, shanty towns squeezed next to five star hotels, and buildings that probably haven’t been touched since the British built them a hundred or more years ago, however, if you have time to get past the soot and noise, there are layers of culture and complexities that make this city a must visit in India.
Varanasi
Twenty-four hours in regular sleeper class just might be too much time on an Indian train with stomach problems. I couldn’t have been happier to arrive in Varanasi (really just to get off the train) but before I could relax I had to find a guest house before my friends arrived that evening. By the time I had made it to the back-packers part of the city, with guest-houses near the river, I was delirious with exhaustion and relieved to find a cheap guest-house with a hot bucket shower. After regaining my strength and meeting my friends, I was relieved to find Varanasi not too crowded and not filled with local Indians trying to scam you. The old part of the city is like a life-size maze for humans, where you have to dodge street sludge, dogs, beggars, street vendors, other tourists, and most difficult enormous cows and bulls meandering the stone pathways not larger than the width of their torso. The river had receded quite low since monsoon season was over a couple months ago but we were told it would get even lower, which would be hard to imagine.
The most spectacular part of the river was our sunrise boat cruise on a wooden boat, which we realized only after starting that water was slowly seeping hence the reason the man rowing the boat tried to stay close to shore. Needless to say we made it back safe but we got a quite a few worried stares from other tourists as our boat driver stopped half way to bail out a few buckets of water.
The most spectacular part of the river was our sunrise boat cruise on a wooden boat, which we realized only after starting that water was slowly seeping hence the reason the man rowing the boat tried to stay close to shore. Needless to say we made it back safe but we got a quite a few worried stares from other tourists as our boat driver stopped half way to bail out a few buckets of water.
My family goodbye
For all the times I grumbled about my hard bed, cold bucket shower, and squirmed when cock-roaches crawled in the corners of the house, I started to have second thoughts about leaving Jodhpur when it was time to say good-bye to my host family. On my last morning they cooked me a huge breakfast and sat with me as we both shared our last thoughts, trying not to make the moment awkward. My host sister assured me we would meet again, and even though she was not engaged yet I was already invited to her wedding. I had to leave early in the morning to board my twenty-four hour train ride to Varanasi so my host mom called a special taxi for me, and before we knew it the driver was honking outside the front door. They helped me carry my bags downstairs and then before launching my last bag in the taxi I embraced each of them one last time. Once inside the taxi my host my reached for my hand and I could see she was shaking and her eyes were beginning to swell. The taxi driver looked back at us, but my host my didn’t let go, instead to patted my cheek, brushing the tears from my cheek as her eyes simultaneously brimmed over with sadness. I spouted out my latest Hindi phrase ‘I will miss you’ then she wiped her face with her sari and we waved good-bye as the taxi engine roared obnoxiously loud towards the main street.
One last week in the field
After a rough bout of meetings with our boss and adviser (the first who hasn’t talked to us since the second week of the internship and the second who advised us to quit because one man in the slum questioned us) I have to admit my internship had a happy ending.
On Thursday I was antsy with anticipation. The weather was pleasant as the sun had not risen to its peak position yet, and I walked briskly passed the smells and garbage that did not phase me anymore. Three women’s group had told us they would assemble at 2:00 pm with the money required to open a savings account, plus they promised that all members had understood and signed their respective constitutions. I should have known better after two months of women telling me the would meet tomorrow, they would fill out the form tomorrow, they would come to sewing class tomorrow, everything was tomorrow, that when tomorrow came around the reply was the same: tomorrow. I realize, however, these women’s lives are not structured to suit my eight to five job (actually in India it’s like ten to six, with a couple hours for lunch). I wanted so badly to scream at them on Friday, when two groups told us a couple members couldn’t come because of shopping or something. We told you yesterday to come at 2:00, couldn’t you have planned your shopping trip for another time! But I know I am simplifying their lives. Women in this slum still have to ‘clean’ their rice (I don’t know the correct term) meaning they spend hours filtering rice and grains just to make the simple chapattis (of which I could wolf down five in seconds not thinking twice how long each one takes to make). The last group was all Muslim women so although they had collected all the money and signatures, not all three leaders were willing to go to the bank on the Friday Muslim holiday. This was understandable but still frustrating.
On Saturday, we met with our gracious translator, Jyoti, for the third day, a law student and friend of JoEun’s. Joti was immensely helpful and spend so much time with us the last days of my internship, there is no way I will be able to properly pay her back for her patience and translation services. We were now down to two groups promising to meet us around 10:00 am since the bank closes early on Saturday. JoEun went to Chokya’s group and Jyoti and I went to Annu’s. My mind was in mixed emotions this day, realizing it was the last day I would stroll down these dirt roads, carefully stepping around garbage, sewage puddles, and cows, all the while smiling profusely as little children ran to shake my hand (this apparently never gets old for anyone under the age of ten here) and placing my hands at heart center to give a calm namaste to the shop owner who had grown familiar to my presence and our four line repetitive conversations asking each other ‘good afternoon’ and ‘how are you’. I was hopeful that these women would come through, but I also knew their lives were unpredictable, so I prepared myself for a final day and tried not to get emotional.
Jyoti and I did not have luck with Annu’s group because one of the essential group leaders had to clean houses until 2:00. This time I wasn’t frustrated at all, instead I was swallowing back tears as I tried to ignore the realization that when the women promised me Tuesday they would all have to time to go to the bank, I would not be there. It was no use, a single tear slipped out and the few women and children looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know if I was crying because of guilt that I was abandoning these families or sadness because I was loosing these women I had become friends with over the course of my internship. When one women called me over and took my face into her hands, and began wiping my tears, cooing softly ‘no cry, no cry’ I knew it was because I was saying bye to my good friends for a long time or potentially forever. There was no time to morn, however, since Chokya’s group was ready to open an account today, Jyoti and I got a call from JuEun that she was already headed to the bank with the three group leaders.
I cleared my mind and got back to business as Jyoti and I trotted down the street for five minutes towards the local bank. When we arrived the three group leaders were perched on a green plastic sofa and JoEun was kneeling in front of them organizing papers. You would not believe the amount of documentation and signatures required for these women to open a group account. We got a few stares but for the most part no one flinched an eye as JoEun, Jyoti, and I kneeled in front of the women explaining and asking them to sign countless documents and scurrying around confirming the next step from various bank employees. Just under three hours of this confusion and pleading for the bank to stay open a few minutes longer, the bank manager handed us a slip with the group’s account number and registration confirmation. We handed it to the group secretary who promptly placed the slip of paper in her sari top. As ridiculous as this would have appeared to me my first week in Jodhpur, by then I knew this was a good sign and that these women would take the account seriously. Upon exiting the bank we all hugged each other and took photos. I’m not sure that the women were as excited as I was, they were all a little anxious to return home since the outing had taken much longer than expected.
It was time to say our last good-byes, which were much harder and longer than I expected. I finally had to pull myself away after an hour of kisses and tears from the women caressing my face and hands. The women asked me for my address and phone number in America, I knew we would probably never be in contact in the future but it was a nice thought that there was some way we could contact each other. Hopping on the crowded bus for the last time in Jodhpur I pretended just this, that someday we would embrace, laugh, and share chai together again.
On Thursday I was antsy with anticipation. The weather was pleasant as the sun had not risen to its peak position yet, and I walked briskly passed the smells and garbage that did not phase me anymore. Three women’s group had told us they would assemble at 2:00 pm with the money required to open a savings account, plus they promised that all members had understood and signed their respective constitutions. I should have known better after two months of women telling me the would meet tomorrow, they would fill out the form tomorrow, they would come to sewing class tomorrow, everything was tomorrow, that when tomorrow came around the reply was the same: tomorrow. I realize, however, these women’s lives are not structured to suit my eight to five job (actually in India it’s like ten to six, with a couple hours for lunch). I wanted so badly to scream at them on Friday, when two groups told us a couple members couldn’t come because of shopping or something. We told you yesterday to come at 2:00, couldn’t you have planned your shopping trip for another time! But I know I am simplifying their lives. Women in this slum still have to ‘clean’ their rice (I don’t know the correct term) meaning they spend hours filtering rice and grains just to make the simple chapattis (of which I could wolf down five in seconds not thinking twice how long each one takes to make). The last group was all Muslim women so although they had collected all the money and signatures, not all three leaders were willing to go to the bank on the Friday Muslim holiday. This was understandable but still frustrating.
On Saturday, we met with our gracious translator, Jyoti, for the third day, a law student and friend of JoEun’s. Joti was immensely helpful and spend so much time with us the last days of my internship, there is no way I will be able to properly pay her back for her patience and translation services. We were now down to two groups promising to meet us around 10:00 am since the bank closes early on Saturday. JoEun went to Chokya’s group and Jyoti and I went to Annu’s. My mind was in mixed emotions this day, realizing it was the last day I would stroll down these dirt roads, carefully stepping around garbage, sewage puddles, and cows, all the while smiling profusely as little children ran to shake my hand (this apparently never gets old for anyone under the age of ten here) and placing my hands at heart center to give a calm namaste to the shop owner who had grown familiar to my presence and our four line repetitive conversations asking each other ‘good afternoon’ and ‘how are you’. I was hopeful that these women would come through, but I also knew their lives were unpredictable, so I prepared myself for a final day and tried not to get emotional.
Jyoti and I did not have luck with Annu’s group because one of the essential group leaders had to clean houses until 2:00. This time I wasn’t frustrated at all, instead I was swallowing back tears as I tried to ignore the realization that when the women promised me Tuesday they would all have to time to go to the bank, I would not be there. It was no use, a single tear slipped out and the few women and children looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know if I was crying because of guilt that I was abandoning these families or sadness because I was loosing these women I had become friends with over the course of my internship. When one women called me over and took my face into her hands, and began wiping my tears, cooing softly ‘no cry, no cry’ I knew it was because I was saying bye to my good friends for a long time or potentially forever. There was no time to morn, however, since Chokya’s group was ready to open an account today, Jyoti and I got a call from JuEun that she was already headed to the bank with the three group leaders.
I cleared my mind and got back to business as Jyoti and I trotted down the street for five minutes towards the local bank. When we arrived the three group leaders were perched on a green plastic sofa and JoEun was kneeling in front of them organizing papers. You would not believe the amount of documentation and signatures required for these women to open a group account. We got a few stares but for the most part no one flinched an eye as JoEun, Jyoti, and I kneeled in front of the women explaining and asking them to sign countless documents and scurrying around confirming the next step from various bank employees. Just under three hours of this confusion and pleading for the bank to stay open a few minutes longer, the bank manager handed us a slip with the group’s account number and registration confirmation. We handed it to the group secretary who promptly placed the slip of paper in her sari top. As ridiculous as this would have appeared to me my first week in Jodhpur, by then I knew this was a good sign and that these women would take the account seriously. Upon exiting the bank we all hugged each other and took photos. I’m not sure that the women were as excited as I was, they were all a little anxious to return home since the outing had taken much longer than expected.
It was time to say our last good-byes, which were much harder and longer than I expected. I finally had to pull myself away after an hour of kisses and tears from the women caressing my face and hands. The women asked me for my address and phone number in America, I knew we would probably never be in contact in the future but it was a nice thought that there was some way we could contact each other. Hopping on the crowded bus for the last time in Jodhpur I pretended just this, that someday we would embrace, laugh, and share chai together again.
Learning from Field Work
Sometimes life is too ridiculous to explain here. At the end of work day I have to pretend it’s all normal just so I don’t stay up all night thinking what I might have done wrong or spend too much time criticizing the work process among NGO’s in India. I have been working to form Self Help Groups among women in a local slum area, basically groups of women who have a common objective such as opening a shop or simply improving their livelihood and so they generally save money together and have regular meetings. The NGO I was paired with ended up being completely useless and non-supportive so one other intern and I have spent the last two month going independently to this community with another field worker (who does not speak English but wants to help women) and educating the women about Self Help Groups, along with teaching English and a few public health classes. Of course we also spend a lot of time just chatting, drinking chai, dancing, and taking photos, but this was also part of the process of gaining the trust of this community. With lots of luck and some persistence, it seemed we would have the chance to actually take these women to the bank to open a group savings account. But as I am frequently reminded of while working here, it is never a good idea to get your hopes too high. Perhaps this is true of any project in life, you need to keep your emotions and expectations on balance, but after daily committing to this community for just over two months (despite our lack of translation skills) I was sincerely hopeful we would help them open a savings account (I have one more week so you never know what will happen but..). The trouble started when my co-worker and I were given an advisor. He’s a smart man, speaks Hindi and English, and was a former government employee in the agricultural department. The only issue was that he didn’t respect the work my co-worker and I have done, and for that matter he only wants to listen to himself talk and our meetings consisted of him lecturing us on what we have done wrong. On his second day to the field with us he got in a dispute with some older men who were questioning our presence in the community, and this one incident was enough for him to turn to JoEun and I in the field and tell us right there and then to quit. Well that was the last thing on our minds after over two months with this group of women, but I was reminded of previous experiences I had had with ‘respected’ members of society, such as government officials, and it is not a good idea to disagree with them particularly if you are a women. So I swallowed every nasty comment I wanted to hurl his way and sat in silence on the rickshaw ride home while he told me how under-qualified I was to set up a microfinance institute, despite the fact that I had mentioned every chance he stopped talking that we were not setting up a microfinance institute. The next day we had another lecture (which I guess was suppose to be a meeting). Luckily, the FSD director (the main US organization I am working for) agreed this man is preposterous and has terminated our partnership with him. Tomorrow JoEun and I will go back into the community to restore any damage and maybe we will be at the bank by the end of the week!
Monkey Park
On the outskirts of Jodhpur there are some ancient Hindu and Jain temples that have I guess been usurped by or designated as the place for monkeys to hang out. It is a hilarious experience to watch hundreds of monkey interacting, snacking, and swinging from the tree branches. If you are lucky you can hand feed them, but don't get near the babies because the momma monkeys are not afraid to show their teeth!
Bollywood or Hollywood
Every night at 9:00 my host family and I eat dinner (don’t ask me why Indians eat so late but that seems to be when most people eat here in Jodhpur or later). We sit in front of the TV watching this ridiculous reality TV serious called Big Boss. In the show a bunch of Bollywood celebrities have to live in a big house together where there are secret cameras so their every move can be monitored by the Big Boss (another famous movie star who hosts the show, and my host family told me he is from Pakistan). Every week on the show the audience votes for one celebrity to be kicked off. It sounds simple but there also seem to be some other rules I haven’t figured out because occasionally celebrities will come back after they were kicked off or random people will join the house (I guess it would help if I could understand Hindi but I’d rather not ask for a translation because most of the drama is quite petty and I can guess as well as they could translate what happened in one argument or another). Last week there was a wedding on the show between two of the celebrities. It’s pretty random but then again US reality TV is pretty bad and full of awful drama, so at least they are just living in a house together and not all sleeping with each other, which some American TV shows promote (and I know they are not sleeping with each other on this show because there are camera’s in every room and besides this their beds are in a communal room so it would be huge drama if something did happen). I have to say I prefer Hollywood over Bollywood, but as far as reality TV both are pretty dismal.
Teaching tennis in Jodhpur, maybe?
“I can teach tennis,” I told my the FSD program coordinator, who was trying to get interns to teach anything they were skilled at to a local school. “Yes, anything is possible” she responded. While I highly doubted this local Jodhpur school had tennis courts, this is the common response to any question or inquiry in India: anything is possible. Sure I thought, from my experience it’s anything that is illegal, crazy, or preposterous, but I decided to go along with the idea that I was actually going to teach tennis to some Indian school kids. I was told to wait at 7:00 am on the corner of a street near my house and a man would pick me up. As I waited for thirty minutes on this random curb, I kept thinking how ridiculous this is, I don’t even know the name of the school or have any contact information. Before my mind could wander any longer, a small red auto (more like a motor bike with a wagon connected) pulled up next to me and the driver started speaking to me in Hindi. Since neither of us had any idea what the other person was trying to ask, I figured not many autos with a bundle of school children in the back would be stopping to pick up a white girl, so I hopped in the front seat.
We drove into the more posh neighborhoods, all comprised of peach stone houses, down ally ways and roads that are behind crowded store fronts, tea stalls, and hotels, houses you otherwise would never noticed if you didn’t know the small road to turn down. For most of the ride I sat in silence, glancing back a few times to the girls and boys behind me, too young to be embarrassed by the pink uniforms required by their school. After about thirty minutes of picking up kids (it might be faster if the driver didn’t drive to the front of each house and instead had two or three universal stops, we definitely could have cut the time in half). Eventually, the one kid who spoke English was shuffled to the front seat next to me as we drove outside the city limits and finally towards the school. No sooner had I started my conversation with this nine-year boy when the bus got a flat tire. “Don’t worry ma’am, this happens every week,” my seat buddy assured me. I peered out the widow as the slim bus driver efficiently switched out the flat tire, I tried to picture school bus driver’s in America fixing a flat tire as quickly as this man did. Recalling my own elementary school bus driver I’m sure she never changed a flat tire in her life. She was probably over fifty, over-weights permed and died brown hair, wearing velcro shoes and a flowery designed blouse, and smoke still lingered in her breath from the last cigarette she had before starting her shift.
We arrived at the school and of course there were no tennis facilities, just a huge dirt field. So I was directed by the principle to just play with the children since apparently next week was sports testing week and they didn’t want to teach the kids anything new or purchase any new equipment. Actually this school’s resources and class-rooms impressed me, the kids were very well behaved, and most of the teachers could speak English.
I joined a group of young boys kicking around a soccer ball, there were no teams or goals, the game seemed to just be keep the ball yourself as long as possible (I was suddenly thankful for my summer soccer leagues and also lucky these boys weren’t too impressive themselves). After exhausting my interest in soccer I joined a younger group of girls and boys practicing yoga. This could be India’s advantage in the future, that their eight year olds already have the patience to meditate and chant ‘om’. While the rest of the world cannot sit still and stresses themselves out with our high-paced society, maybe Indian workers in the future will use their meditation skills to calmly conduct meetings and persevere. I hope this will happen in the NGO field particularly because so far I have been unimpressed with the NGO workers here. Many are corrupt and simply start an NGO to get tax breaks, money, or social recognition.
No city buses directly came to the school, so after a cup of chai, I was taken on a motorbike to the nearest bus stand about three miles away. There is nothing like an early morning ride on a motorbike in Rajasthan, the dessert cliffs with the sun emanating behind them and a gentle breeze to quell the rising temperatures. My mind was totally at peace as we whizzed down the gravel road, dodging tundra and pot-holes, there were no other vehicles in site and no one to stare at my white skin. I couldn’t help but smile and hope that I would be back, if nothing more than for this short, early morning motorbike ride.
We drove into the more posh neighborhoods, all comprised of peach stone houses, down ally ways and roads that are behind crowded store fronts, tea stalls, and hotels, houses you otherwise would never noticed if you didn’t know the small road to turn down. For most of the ride I sat in silence, glancing back a few times to the girls and boys behind me, too young to be embarrassed by the pink uniforms required by their school. After about thirty minutes of picking up kids (it might be faster if the driver didn’t drive to the front of each house and instead had two or three universal stops, we definitely could have cut the time in half). Eventually, the one kid who spoke English was shuffled to the front seat next to me as we drove outside the city limits and finally towards the school. No sooner had I started my conversation with this nine-year boy when the bus got a flat tire. “Don’t worry ma’am, this happens every week,” my seat buddy assured me. I peered out the widow as the slim bus driver efficiently switched out the flat tire, I tried to picture school bus driver’s in America fixing a flat tire as quickly as this man did. Recalling my own elementary school bus driver I’m sure she never changed a flat tire in her life. She was probably over fifty, over-weights permed and died brown hair, wearing velcro shoes and a flowery designed blouse, and smoke still lingered in her breath from the last cigarette she had before starting her shift.
We arrived at the school and of course there were no tennis facilities, just a huge dirt field. So I was directed by the principle to just play with the children since apparently next week was sports testing week and they didn’t want to teach the kids anything new or purchase any new equipment. Actually this school’s resources and class-rooms impressed me, the kids were very well behaved, and most of the teachers could speak English.
I joined a group of young boys kicking around a soccer ball, there were no teams or goals, the game seemed to just be keep the ball yourself as long as possible (I was suddenly thankful for my summer soccer leagues and also lucky these boys weren’t too impressive themselves). After exhausting my interest in soccer I joined a younger group of girls and boys practicing yoga. This could be India’s advantage in the future, that their eight year olds already have the patience to meditate and chant ‘om’. While the rest of the world cannot sit still and stresses themselves out with our high-paced society, maybe Indian workers in the future will use their meditation skills to calmly conduct meetings and persevere. I hope this will happen in the NGO field particularly because so far I have been unimpressed with the NGO workers here. Many are corrupt and simply start an NGO to get tax breaks, money, or social recognition.
No city buses directly came to the school, so after a cup of chai, I was taken on a motorbike to the nearest bus stand about three miles away. There is nothing like an early morning ride on a motorbike in Rajasthan, the dessert cliffs with the sun emanating behind them and a gentle breeze to quell the rising temperatures. My mind was totally at peace as we whizzed down the gravel road, dodging tundra and pot-holes, there were no other vehicles in site and no one to stare at my white skin. I couldn’t help but smile and hope that I would be back, if nothing more than for this short, early morning motorbike ride.
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